


Welcome to Wherever You Are

by Aramley



Category: Social Network (2010) RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Politics, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-21
Updated: 2011-06-21
Packaged: 2017-10-20 15:20:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/214162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aramley/pseuds/Aramley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"We should get a White House cat."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Welcome to Wherever You Are

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted anonymously [here](http://community.livejournal.com/tsn_kinkmeme/1522.html?thread=2087154#t2087154) for the prompt: _Andrew is the president (he was born in California, so it could happen) and Jesse is his neurotic, but brilliant assistant/speech writer_.

Jesse's not hyperventilating. His best friend just got elected President of the United States and delivered a speech Jesse wrote to many more millions of people than he can properly conceptualize, and Jesse's not hyperventilating. He's just - he's savouring the victory, is what he's doing. He is being what Justin would probably call present in the moment or some other phrase made of essentially meaningless strings of words that Justin intones like a gnomic truth, so that's what he's doing, he's just doing it in the men's room that smells sharp and too-floral like disinfectant and urinal cakes while outside 54% of the voting-age American public lose their collective shit over what just happened. It's a nice bathroom, though, as these things go. There's a lot of marble and chrome, and fluffy white towels in snowy piles instead of paper-towel dispensers. As far as places to freak out go, there are worse. Not that Jesse is freaking out.

He lets the water run, the sound of it echoing off the gleaming tile like white noise while he splashes palmfuls of cold water onto his pale yet overheated, probably unattractively sweaty face, which probably accounts for how he doesn't notice the new-minted President Elect letting himself into the bathroom or sneaking up behind him until he finishes drying his face with a towel and straightens up to see them both framed together in the bank of mirrors above the marble and chrome counters.

"Oh," says Jesse. "Hey."

"Hey," mirror Andrew says.

Jesse turns around. The cool edge of the marble counter digs into his back.

"Hey," real Andrew says. He is flushed and there are spots of feverish brightness over his sharp cheekbones, under the makeup and the SoCal tan. His hair has started to escape from what is probably the six or seven pounds of hair product it takes to make it lie flat and sleek like that, the way polling tells him it should. His expression is a little dazed, a little wondering. Actually, Jesse thinks, he looks a lot like he did when Jesse first met him, when he was all bony wrists and skinny jeans, plaid shirts and all that hair. All that's left now are the bony wrists and the way he stands sometimes when nobody's watching, balancing on the outside of his shoes the way he used to when they were beat-up All Stars and not Prada. Hands in his pockets; angular. On the campaign Justin would try to get Andrew to put on weight - skinniness equals fragility, apparently, to the American public, equals not up to the job - but Andrew's body resists all attempts to pad its sharp angles with muscle or fat.

I helped elect the first hipster president of the United States, Jesse thinks. God forgive me.

"Hey," he says, instead of what a normal person would probably say, which is _congratulations._

Andrew bounces a little on the balls of his feet. "You watched the speech, right?"

"Of course," Jesse says. "Of course I watched it."

"So?"

"You, uh." Were amazing. Are amazing. "You spoke too fast in the promise-of-the-future section."

"Oh?" says Andrew.

"It's okay," Jesse says. "It's - I don't know why I said that. It was the weakest section. You were just putting it out of its misery."

"The crowd liked that part though," says Andrew. Says the President Elect. "I think they're still cheering. Honestly."

"Yeah, well." Jesse shrugs, conveying his opinion of the crowd's ability to appreciate the finer points of modern political oratory. "You were really great, though. It was, I mean, I don't even know how you did it. How you do it. I was just watching you and I wanted to throw up."

"Did you?" Andrew smiles, and then suddenly he looks concerned. "Oh, _did_ you? Is that why you're - are you alright?"

"What," Jesse says, and "Oh, no," and, "Seriously, it was a figure of speech."

"Oh," says Andrew. "It's alright. I wanted to throw up a bit, too. It's just I thought it'd probably look quite bad, you know, vomiting on live television. And Justin would probably actually murder me afterwards."

"Then Armie would have to be President," says Jesse. "And he talks too slow for my style."

"Good job all round then," Andrew says, grinning his old wide, goofy grin, that makes Jesse think about things that happened a long time ago. To avoid thinking about them, he looks down at the unscuffed toes of their shiny shoes. Justin had stolen his sneakers and replaced them with these uncomfortable expensive dress shoes ("Sneakers and suits haven't been cool for ten years, man, and I think you need to come to terms with that," Justin had said, adjusting his hipster specs, so really, what did he even know.)

"Hey, Jess," Andrew says. Jesse looks up. Andrew is grinning at him in a way that makes Jesse wonder what the hell the other 46% of the voting public were thinking. "We did it."

"You did it," Jesse tells him. "I just helped you say thanks."

"You know I couldn't have done it without you," Andrew says. He tilts his head. His eyes have gone soft and fond.

Jesse doesn't know what to say to that, so what he says is, "I'll have to move my cats to DC."

"We'll find a shelter so you can foster some more cats," Andrew says, laughing.

"I don't know, my cats are New York cats. I don't know if DC cats can handle that."

"You think your cats are too tough for DC cats?"

"I'm saying there could be, you know, some cultural conflict."

"Maybe there should be a White House cat," Andrew says, and suddenly looks excited by his own idea. "Hey! We should get a White House cat."

"I think dogs are the traditional presidential pet," Jesse says.

"The cat can live in your office," Andrew says. "By order of the president. Which is me."

"Which is you," Jesse echoes, looking at Andrew, a little stunned, a little awed, a lot proud.


End file.
